


Cookies & Dishes

by IamBuckVu, paladin_cleric_mage



Series: As I Live And Breathe [2]
Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Misgendering, References to Drugs, Suicide Attempt, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:11:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamBuckVu/pseuds/IamBuckVu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladin_cleric_mage/pseuds/paladin_cleric_mage





	1. Chapter 1

Weekends always twist French up. There’s never a clear routine; no two weekends are alike, and he can’t control it. French hates the feeling of being out of control, whether he’s conscious of it or not.

He’s sitting on the couch in the living room. Carlos is cuddled against him while Adrien is sprawled out nearby. They’re watching a movie, the most recent Pixar one. French doesn’t even know the name of it. He’s happy to feel his brother’s warmth at his side, but otherwise he’s dissatisfied.

No, dissatisfied makes it seem like he’s a customer. He’s no customer to life. French would have never bought this. Instead, life was thrust upon him, responsibilities piled on until all he could fathom were jacked up weekdays and cocaine highs to make it through.

Being in the house with them during those few short weeks had been a reprieve from it all. Out of routine, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t freak him out, because he wasn’t alone. He had Buck, the others. And Buck was so good about making sure it felt okay for French, that he was safe.

Safe. He wonders if Buck is safe now.

[Text to: Buck]  
Hey, how’s it going?

A picture file comes through. Buck took a selfie. He’s in the kitchen with an apron on, flour on his chest and a dab on the tip of his nose. He’s lifting up a spoon in the cheesiest pose with the goofiest grin, while cookie dough falls haphazardly out. The caption reads: Taking your advice & staying healthy!

Before French has time to reply, there are a barrage of pictures:  
\- Warm gooey cookies on a platter.  
\- Buck pretending to try and open his mouth wide enough for a whole cookie.  
\- The oven, with a fresh batch baking in the hot yellow light.

And a text: You should come over. I can’t eat all these by myself.

The phone lights up in French's hand. Unlocking his phone and swiping into his messages, he sees the red bubble marking 6 notifications from Buck. He taps in and scrolls up to the first message.

His heart catches. Since when does Buck cook? Since when does the image of him, pale and absolutely beaming, stun French into speechlessness? Beautiful is the first word that comes to mind. He’s never thought of his friends as beautiful before. Then, he’s never had friends close enough to consider as anything other than a superficial means of achieving status. Avoiding the inevitable loneliness, otherness, that consumes him.

In freshman and sophomore years he used to join his teammates on the weekends for parties, trips to the mall, hangouts with video games and junk food. He can’t remember the last time that was a reality for him. They still lived that way, they still invited him out. Luckily, French’s sheer intensity and need to handle each individual obstacle perfectly was admirable to them. They sought his approval, and he gave it freely.

It was easy to admire French. Harder to see him as an equal. Especially when he often turned down their offers. He had to; hiding behind the fact that he was busy, he knew they would never understand. He wasn’t the same kid anymore, hadn’t been since his father left again, and his brothers had become his sons. Since his mother’s ‘condition’ forced him to take two jobs by age sixteen. Since he’d stood up in front of a shooter with three other kids he shouldn’t have been hanging out with.

Forget not being the same kid anymore. French was never a kid in the first place. Now it was just harder for him to play at the idea of being one.

Carlos coughs and burrows deeper into his side, one little hand on French’s belly. It’s nice to spend time with them, calm and quiet, sharing a movie while Mom’s out on a reckless date. He can’t really enjoy it, though, because he can’t relax. Quiet makes him restless, and he didn’t use today. The noise in his head hasn’t been honed into it’s usual melody. It’s all discord, crashing cymbals and screeching horns. He doesn’t remember the last time he let this happen– for months he’s been carefully dosing throughout the day so he’s only truly sober in sleep.

Buck’s messages beckon a reply. He wishes he could go over, hang out in the kitchen and help his friend clean up. Brush the flour off his shirt, laugh about his apron, wipe the batter from his nose. Maybe the restlessness would dissipate, as it had on other night’s when Buck’s smooth voice and gentle words soothed his anxiety to the point where he could breathe.

Too bad he’s a prisoner to his responsibilities. Finally he texts back:

[Text to: Buck]  
Looks amazing!  
[…]  
Thanks for the offer, but I can’t leave the house right now. My mom’s out and I’ve got the boys.  
[…]  
We’re watching a CGI movie. 

Without hesitation, Buck texts back:

[Text to: French]  
Dude! Bring them over. ( ◕‿◕✿) Cookies for everyone!!  
Besides I <3 CGI. Bring it, too.

Buck is excited, exuberant, full of hope. He doesn’t want anything else in the world other than to be with French right now, and he’ll take that however he can get it. The thought of getting to see French’s brothers just makes him giddy. It would be so much fun to fill the all-too-stagnant walls of his house with noise and life and laughter. He is aching for it.

When French hesitates to reply, he starts to feel the inevitable crash of disappointment preemptively. He doesn’t want to feel that, the rejection, the loneliness of being caged all night within these ticky tacky walls. He fires off one more plea for good measure.

[Text to: French]  
I won’t take no for an answer.

The texts make French uncomfortable, heighten the discord. He doesn’t like to do things outside the bounds of his own comfort– bounds which are carved in white marble with a purpose to keep things in control. It was a miracle Buck was able to convince French to go to the house that second night, the day he’d accepted his scholarship. It ended up being a good experience. French tells himself that going to Buck’s house tonight will be a good experience, too.

Seeing how badly French wants to step outside of himself and be in the presence of a friend, his heart is easy to convince of it. However, his mind is not. It prattles on about manners, intruding on other people’s space, bringing two little boys who aren’t the best behaved into a household where there’s only one shy child.

Buck certainly isn’t acting shy now, wild with energy and pressuring him into coming over. It shouldn’t feel like pressure. Buck is only acting like what he is: a gracious friend. Still, the alarms in French’s mind won’t turn off. He knows he won’t be able to relax around Buck with the stress of watching his brothers and making sure Mr. Vu still respects him at the end of the night.

Just go, he tells himself. Bring them and go. Then Adrien makes a quip about the movie, and French remembers where he is. What his life is. He can’t leave them alone and he won’t bring them over to someone else’s house unannounced on a Saturday night. After their mother’s home and they’re asleep, though, anything’s game.

[Text to: Buck]  
I’d love to come over once my mom is home and these two are in bed.  
[…]  
If you want to see me sooner you’re more than welcome to join us here!

In hopes of helping Buck understand, he lifts his phone and takes a snapshot of Carlos half asleep, lying against him. He sends it.

As soon as Buck sees the picture of Carlos, it sobers him up. What was he thinking? He scans back through his texts and re-read what he’d written. Maybe it was the sugar crash starting to hit him. But no. It was more than that.

He was acting crazy.

He had been feeling so many things, being with French these past couple days had awoken something inside of him, and he kept making dumb choices. Saying “I love you” over the phone? Forgetting to set his alarm, forgetting to eat, and- now- pressuring French to come over?

Buck had become the thing he feared the most. He didn’t want to take anything from French. He wanted to give to him, understand him, listen to him. He didn’t want to ask anything of him. Well, he did. Deep inside he felt like he wanted everything from French, and that scared him. He didn’t know how to reign it in, how to want something- to want someone- and not be obsessed with them the way Buck’s parents had always been overly obsessed with him, co-dependent of him.

He felt like punishing himself and declining French’s offers to still hang out, but he didn’t want to hurt French more than anything else in the world. Buck looked again at the picture of Carlos. He looked sweet. It looked so cozy there.

Would his parents actually allow him to go over?

He slipped into the living room with a plate of cookies for his parents and tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, “So…French asked me to go over to his place to hang out. Is that ok?”

His Dad thought for a moment, “Did you clean up the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

Then, to Buck’s shock, he looked at his Mom and nodded. Taking the cue, she smiled, “Let me get my keys.”

[ text to: @French ]  
I can’t believe it. My dad said I can come over.

Buck was so nervous. He piled cookies onto a plate and covered them in tin foil.

The tight feeling in French's chest releases when Buck’s text comes in. For the first time in years French is having a friend over. He can’t believe his own audacity, especially since Buck knows what it’s like here. The boy has seen his mother so wasted she couldn’t walk, seen the mess of their small condo. Yet still Buck accepts him, and French is letting him in instead of caving to feelings of embarrassment, the preemptive need to push someone away before they can reject you.

It’s a good thing, this friendship with Buck. He smiles and types back a reply.

[ text to: @Buck ]  
That’s awesome!

Glancing down, he sees that Carlos is asleep. French curses himself for not making them brush their teeth earlier. He’ll have to let it slide tonight. It’ll be better to get him into bed now, leaving only Adrien awake while Buck is over. Less to manage, better chance he can actually relax.

[ text to: @Buck ]  
I’m going to put Carlos down to sleep now. Take advantage of him being sleepy for once.  
[…]  
I’ll leave the front door unlocked for you.  
[…]  
Don’t be offended if Adrien doesn’t even look at you when you come in. He’s just like that.


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Vu arrived home from dropping Buck off at the Sosa's home grinning from ear to ear. She placed her keys in a bowl by the door and hung her coat up in the closet, then she joined Mr. Vu in the living room.

“What curfew did you give her?” he asked without looking up from his book.

She sat on the ottoman at his feet, hands folded in her lap, shoulders forward expectantly. Once he looked up to see what the fuss was about, she smiled knowingly and replied, “I didn’t.”

Mr. Vu could tell he was missing something. He marked the place in his book and set it aside, sat more upright, thinking. He was lost.

“When was the last time there were cookies?” she offered, trying to help her husband connect the dots on his own.

It had been a while. It had been since before, well…since before The Change. It was something Mrs. Vu and Michelle had shared; they would make cookies to surprise Mr. Vu. They used to call it “their very own way of saying I love you.”

“Oh!” he said, the implications dawning on him. “Do you think…?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Vu interrupted.

“And the Sosa boy?” he asked, considering. He liked Alfonso; the kid was going places. He nodded approval.

“Yes,” Mrs. Vu smiled. She approved of the hand-working, respectful, presentable boy as well.

“If she has feelings for him…”

“…we may get our little girl back.”

They both smiled with a deep sense of relief.

“You should send her a text,” Mr. Vu suggested, taking a cookie from the plate next to him and relishing every sugary morsel. “Tell her she can stay out as late as she wants.”

Mrs. Vu felt a pang of loss at the implications of his suggestion, felt a shiver of impropriety, but shrugged it off. If her baby fell in love with a boy, maybe she would decide this Buck nonsense had run its course. It felt like a dream that was just out of reach. “Ok,” she consented. “I will.”


	3. Chapter 3

People didn’t really understand how things worked in the Vu household. Buck had parents. They were involved. They loved him, provided for him, wanted to protect him. That should have been enough right? He shouldn’t complain. I mean…how selfish would that be, for instance, to complain to French, when both of his parents had abandoned him in different ways.

Buck was raised to honor his parents, to respect their wishes and uphold the Vu family household. Destroying the Vu’s image of perfection by talking about his unhappiness went against every moral he had internalized from years of close and involved upbringing.

Buck’s only defense mechanism was to go through the motions and be what his parents wanted. And that was enough for them, they used to be really happy and close; even when he still went by Michelle, she was happy in her own way. But Buck started to realize: he wasn’t Michelle. She was like this person walking around with his body, this construct who had stolen his life, this imposter who breathed his air and slept in his bed while Buck’s true self was withering away.

I’m not sure I can adequately capture for you the fear Buck felt when he went against everything his parents wanted for him and decided to be true to himself. It was that fear that kept him silent for years. His parents were his world, and he didn’t really know how to be something on his own, separate from them. But the depression kept getting worse and worse. He would self-medicate with opiates to numb the pain.

Then, one day, he took too many pills. He was falling asleep and couldn’t keep himself awake, and he was so scared. But, for a moment, he felt relief. Michelle’s life would finally be over. That was the last thought he had before he blacked out.

He slept a sleep without dreams. It was like his entire body slowed and he was awash in a sea of nothingness. He felt nothing. He was free.

When he came to late into the next day, he realized what he had done. He had accepted that he might have died. Death seemed better than going forward as Michelle. So he decided: Michelle would be dead. From this day forward, he would let her die, and he would be who he was always meant to be, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

He took a shower and wept, doubled over on the floor of the tub while warm water poured over his small body. He felt like he had been falling for so long and finally reached rock bottom. This was it. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than having actually tried to kill himself. He didn’t know how to climb out of this hole, but at least he recognized where he was, and he was looking for a way up.

He toweled off, wiping water away with tears, then stood in front of the bathroom mirror. His long jet black hair tumbled over his cheeks like chains. So he took out the scissors his mom kept in the drawer and cut them off, one lock at time. Seeing the black wet cords unfurl in the sink felt…exhilarating. He kept cutting and cutting, then took out his dad’s electric razor and buzzed his scalp.

When he was done, looking in the mirror at his clean shaven head, he once again felt free.

His parents didn’t take the news well. His dad was angry. His mom tried to mask her horror. Ever since then, things had been volatile in their house. Buck was constantly afraid. If they couldn’t handle this, how would they react to other things he wanted for himself? So he protected himself by not telling them anything.

When he asked to go to French’s house, it was the first time he’d asked for anything since, well, since he was Michelle. They had been grasping at straws to hold onto him for so long, he never thought they’d let him go. As his mom drove him across town, he sat silent and still, the plate of cookies on his lap wrapped up in tin foil, and stared straight ahead in shock.

Would he actually be able to have something he wanted, be who he wanted, love who he wanted? It all seemed too unreal.

When Buck arrived, he still couldn’t believe it. He knocked softly on French’s door before opening it, then turned to wave goodbye to his mom and stepped inside.

Sure enough, Adrien was watching TV on the couch and French was nowhere to be seen. It looked cozy in the living room. Inviting. But Buck suddenly felt incredibly shy and out of his element, so he slipped into the kitchen to put the cookies on the counter.

There were dishes in the sink. Maybe he could at least make things a little better for French? So he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and started to wash up. Hands busy in the soapy water, he felt himself unwind, and, before he even realized it, he was humming.

Carlos is a stomach sleeper, and falls asleep easiest when French sits beside him on the bed for a bit and rubs his back. The magical noise of the movie sounds soft from up here. Pleasant.

Nights like this, when the house is quiet, French is able to let worry go. It’s hard for him to relinquish anything; responsibility is a weight he bears like a cross. Even when he can put it down, ask for help, walk away, he won’t. Maybe he doesn’t know how. Maybe some dark part of him likes being a martyr, giving himself away until there’s nothing left.

After a few minutes he hears the front door open slowly and shut. A flicker of worry returns, makes his cheeks flush. The house is a mess. Why didn’t he do his chores earlier like he was supposed to? He was so tired. Still, he should have done it before Buck got there. What would his friend think?

The pale sound of running water filters upstairs from the kitchen. What’s going on? He stops rubbing Carlos’s back and gradually shifts his weight off the bed. The boy remains still, breathing in small, steady loops. French gives him a silent nod and leaves, halfway closing the door behind him.

Downstairs he pauses in the threshold of the kitchen, unheard. Buck’s coat is folded over the stool at the island, which is covered with a mess of open food packages, dirty dishes. French feels the heat of embarrassment, and considers telling Buck to stop. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity.

It isn’t pity, though. Is it? Buck is humming to himself, he realizes as he instinctively leans in, curious about the tune. No, Buck is doing this happily, enjoying the chance to be of service. Probably because he knows, as much as French hates to admit it, that he can use the help.

The boy’s selflessness makes him smile. He sees the cookies wedged onto a barely clear spot on the counter and laughs.

"You gonna quit doing those dishes and let me try one of those? All those pictures you sent got me wondering. I never knew you liked to bake."

"Oh hey, French!" Buck looked over his shoulder at French, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be here in his home, together in the same room. He wasn’t even giddy. He just felt…right. A calm joy permeated his words. Being close to French was enough even before he was in the room. It was just the…being…that drew him in, that made him feel at home. Being close. Sharing space. "Help yourself. I want to finish up. I won’t be long."

He turned around and kept talking, answering the question freely.

"Yeah, I don’t bake that much, actually. I pretty much only know how to make two things: pancakes and chocolate chip cookies. (He laughs at himself.) My mom and I used to make cookies all the time back when…well…(back before I was Buck, he thought, but shakes off the unpleasantness)…it’s been awhile. But it was something we used to do together. It was nice."

It’s unnatural for him to stand by and watch someone do dishes in his home. Unless Carlos and Adrien are sloppily tag-teaming sink duties, French does all the chores on his own. There was a time when their mother used to help, but that was a long time ago.

Once more he stifles the urge to take over. He stills himself, focuses on the smooth sound of Buck’s words. How he used to bake with his mother. It was a bonding experience for them. It changed. French can relate to that– knowing briefly what love is and having it disappear. Though he’s certain Buck’s parents still love him, even if they’re not sure how to show it.

French’s mother claims to love him. He remembers the night of the dinner, how she implied regret over having him. She feels stuck here, in a life she didn’t want. Of course she tried to backtrack, told French he’s a good man. He knows he’s not, though. He puts all his effort into being perfect, being someone worth helping, worth making a better life. In truth he’s worth nothing; shouldn’t have even been born.

He shakes the thought away and steps toward the counter, reaching for a cookie. Watching Buck finish up the dishes, he takes a bite. Considers it.

"Wow, this is pretty good."

Buck picks up on French’s uneasiness right away. He’s always had a sixth sense about these kinds of things, but with French it’s even more astute. Just with a glance he feels like he can just read the other boy’s mind. "You know, if you want to dry things and put them away, we can keep going. I’d do it, but I don’t know where anything goes."

The messy room doesn’t bother Buck, but he can tell it’s affecting French. Maybe if they clear up some of the physical clutter, it will help clear French’s mental clutter as well? That’s Buck’s hope at least. Buck feels at peace here, and he wouldn’t feel right if he couldn’t help French feel the same.

French offers a smile, not sure if it’s borne of fear or happiness. How does Buck handle things so easily, languidly, as if there’s never any cause for concern? It’s intimidating, admirable. "Yeah, sure. I’ll help. We can finish this up pretty quick." French takes another bite of the cookie and sets it down, finds a dry dish towel on the counter. He walks around Buck to the side of the sink where the dish rack is. One by one, he dries and puts away each dish Buck has kindly volunteered to wash.

At first they do this silently, French lost in thought about who he is at home, and that kid clashes with who he is outside. Who he pretends to be. Buck doesn’t seem to notice or mind, doesn’t seem to need an apology for the state of things. Still, French is ashamed.

"I’m sorry about how it looks in here. Coming from a house like yours, this is probably… I don’t know, deplorable. Thanks for helping. You didn’t have to."

Buck immediately laughs at French’s choice of words. "Please. Never call yourself deplorable again. No. You’re the opposite of deplorable. I feel…safe here."

Buck thinks about that a second after he says it. He knows it’s true, but doesn’t understand why. French was right: it was odd that he preferred this home over his own. Was he messed up? Did he just want things that were messed up?

No…that wasn’t it. He kept washing.

The authority that breaks through Buck’s voice gives French a warm feeling, straight through. Unconsciously he sidesteps a little closer to the other boy, giving him a sidelong glance and half-smile. He’s small and sweet, and he… What? He feels safe here?

French doesn’t even feel safe here. Not entirely, at least. As relaxed as he is right now, enjoying the present moment, there’s always the itching at the back of his skull. Are his brothers alright, are the bills all paid, and when will his mother be home? He’s thankful she doesn’t drive. Although the man who picked her up for the date could be drunk driving her home now. Maybe she won’t even come home, maybe–

Once more he shakes such thoughts from his head. It’s too easy to give himself to the anxiety, the worry. Tonight he was determined to let it go, just live. Buck was with him, making it possible for him to do that.

"I’m glad you feel safe here. You help me to feel safe wherever we are, so it means a lot that it’s mutual."

Buck was glad his hands were busy. At French’s words, he felt himself blush all the way to his ears. He obscured his gaze, trying to tame the ridiculous smile on his face, staring at the sink full of soapy water. He picked up a particularly dirty dish that had been soaking and started scrubbing intently, holding the echo of French’s words within his heart.

 _You help me to feel safe wherever we are._ That is what French had said. The words seemed like an invitation, but he had no clue what to do, what to say next. What if he made a mistake said the wrong thing, felt the wrong thing? Would French accept him? He had to try.

Buck shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, but kept busy with the task at hand. "Yeah. I mean…it’s mutual. For me, too."

French paused, a glass in one hand, the dishtowel snug inside, drying the inside. Buck had replied so casually, so openly. French felt the need to respond in kind, to open up and share just how much of an impact Buck had on his life. He faced the smaller boy, caught his eye and spoke, "I don't think you understand. If it wasn't for you, I would have never gone to the abandonned house in the first place. I would have never returned the second night. I would have never heard OA's story. You're the reason I started to believe her, to believe that there might be...more...than all this."

The gravity of French’s confession does not escape Buck. Staring into his deep eyes, Buck felt closer to him than he’d ever been before. French was talking about faith. Belief. French, the eternal skeptic, was sharing his heart, attributing his ability to feel safe and hopeful to…Buck.

Waves of warmth washed through Buck’s body, crashing against each other like…like nothing he’d ever experienced before. His core was melting, the longer he gazed into French’s eyes it melted more and more. He felt the aftershocks throughout his skin. He shifted under the tremors, arms adjusted slightly, moving his weight from one foot to the next, hands fluttering about for a place to rest.

Belief. French believed OA. And to hear him say the words, to see the feeling in his eyes, to know where French started from and how hard he’d raged against OA and fought against belief, to see him now, in truth, yearning for hope, it made Buck’s heart explode.

Buck looked French up and down, always pulled back to his intense eyes. He wanted to remember this moment. He wanted to remember French like this forever. Breathing irregularly, trying not to cry, not really feeling like he should laugh, he released a sigh, deeply happy. "Choosing to believe makes me feel like I find something in myself, like an invisible organ or muscle or something, and it teaches me how to want new things. Things other people can’t possibly understand unless they feel them, too." He wasn’t really talking about the way French made him feel. He meant something else, something spiritual, but- in this moment- all his feelings were cascading together.

"That’s good. I’d like to try believing more, too." He nods, "Really believing, though. Not giving up like I did with OA." Remembering the devastation French felt when he realized she lied still hurts. Even now, weeks later, after they helped save their classmates through movements, he doubts her story was real. There’s a sense of guilt that comes with knowing his faith is so easily shaken; he’s been in contact with OA, and even briefly, Hap, or a man who claimed to be him. There is proof, but for French even tangible evidence isn’t enough. He doesn’t know why this is, why his confidence can quickly crumble.

He wishes it didn’t. Which brings him back to the friend standing before him. He laughs. "It’s funny. Your dad wishes you were more like me, but really, I admire you, Buck. You’re spilling over with hope, and I want that. Hope. Faith. I’ve got a sliver of it with you, and I’m going to hold onto that." He shrugs, "I just wish I knew how to make it grow."

French kept billowing up and crumbling down, like an emotional balloon. Buck didn’t know how to steady him, but he felt he had to try. He reached out and placed his hand on French’s forearm to comfort him, reassure him that he was not alone. "Everyone thinks they know who we are or what we are going through, but nobody really sees us. Everyone wants something from us, but they don’t want to know what we want for ourselves. I understand why you didn’t trust OA…she seemed like just one more person who asked us to give, to make her problems our problems. All I want is for you to just be you, and for me to be me."

Buck’s touch is somehow both light and solid, much like him. French looks down into his eyes, startled by their warmth. There’s an unexpected maturity to this sophomore. Vaguely he wonders if it’s because Buck began his life assigned female; girls were said to mature faster. Then he thinks, that’s not it at all. Buck has seen and felt so much to get to where he is now. That’s why he’s full of compassion, hope.

Courage blooms in French’s chest, accompanied by a sensation he might recognize as a crush– if this were a girl standing before him. He imagines slipping his hand into Buck’s, leading him upstairs and pulling him onto the bed. A sleepover. They could read. Cuddle. Talk. Wake up together, safe.

The prominence of the desire strikes him. Horrifies him. He takes a casual step back from Buck, reaches for a jar of honey on the counter. Another item that must be returned to its rightful shelf.

There are no rightful shelves. Not in this kitchen, not in French’s mind. There is nowhere solid for him to rest his thoughts. Solid. Buck is solid. He could rest his thoughts on his friend’s shoulders, share the burden, absorb the hope. That might mean acknowledging whatever strange feeling just coursed through him. He doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t know who he is, though he’s afraid it’s not who he pretends to be.

Carefully he places the jar inside a spice cabinet only containing instant coffee, cinnamon, and salt. Then he turns back to Buck, who deserves to know this, too. "I’m not sure who I am. And sometimes I don’t think I want to find out. Sometimes I think it’s a lie. Finding ourselves. Another thing they tell us to do, like picking a college, choosing a career, a wife, a home. I want to do all these things. I’ve always bought into it, figuring it’s my way out. Play along with the system just so I can get a chance to be someone other than this." He gestures to the half-cleaned kitchen. "But like everything else, I doubt it. I doubt myself. Don’t you?"

"I can’t afford to." Buck takes a cue from French and returns to chores, going back to the sink to wash the rest of the dishes. He stops up the drain, squirts in the yellow dish soap while the hot water runs, and smiles at the fresh lemon scent as the bubbles churn and grow. "There are no plans for someone like me to buy into. If I don’t hold onto who I am, I’ve got nothing."

Buck thinks of the pain he saw in French’s expression, the way he fled from the conversation.

"Sometimes you aren’t anyone in particular, you’re just sort of in this in-between place. But that doesn’t mean you don’t exist. Just because other people don’t know how to label you or acknowledge you, just because you don’t even know how to acknowledge your own self, it doesn’t mean you don’t exist. You exist. You are. That’s enough." As Buck is talking he realizes he has stopped really talking about French and started talking about himself. And he was getting worked up, thinking of all the pressure he was under constantly to fit into the neat little boxes everyone had for him. He was on edge. His eyes were getting wet with unfallen tears. "They can’t touch you, who you really are. And just because there are no words in the language they taught us to express who we are, that doesn’t make our identities any less valid."

For the first time in months French is looking at a kitchen where everything is right where it belongs. He wishes he felt that way inside– that he was in the right place.

He wishes Buck felt that way, too. The pain is evident, laced through the words he spills into the sink. It interrupts the soothing flow of his voice and causes French’s heart to beat faster. To think there’s no plans for a kid like Buck, no prescribed way of living that will benefit him in the long run, is harrowing.

Now it makes sense. Buck’s insistence on remaining hopeful above all else. Holding fast to his beliefs, lest they slip away. He would slip away, too. French couldn’t bear that. He watches in awe as Buck’s beautiful hands turn dishes back and forth, rinse suds off, place them in the dish rack. French is too stunned to speak.

He imagines being articulate enough to string together all the words Buck needs to hear, healing words that will bind the wounds clearly carved within. He doesn’t have that power, though, doesn’t know what to say. It makes him feel weak. It hurts.

He steps forward and shuts the faucet off. The sound of Adrien’s movie has stopped. French listens, hears small footsteps upstairs. The sudden space gives him room to breathe into the emotions that have surfaced through learning of his friend’s pain.

"Buck, you’re really strong. I don’t want to say it’ll be okay, because I don’t know that. But you’re strong enough to take on whatever comes at you. I mean, you’ve already proved it." He smiles. "Come on, this place looks great. Let’s take the cookies and go sit down. Find something to watch that wasn’t produced by Disney."

Honestly, a reprieve sounds nice. Buck is tired, but not because of the chores. It’s because of all the emotional baggage he’s been lugging around. The idea of focussing on something else, unwinding, just breathing for a bit…it’s just what he needs. "That sounds nice." He towels off his arms and hands and waits for French to lead the way into the living room.


	4. Chapter 4

When Buck texted his mom to come get him, she urged him to stay out later. But he was tired, and French was tired, too. It had been an emotional evening.  
It was a great evening, of course. They watched a couple shows on Netflix and laughed and ate cookies. It was relaxing. Fun.

But Buck needed time to process his feelings, and- to do that- he really needed to be alone. They had talked about some pretty heavy stuff. Buck had opened up, and so had French, and they’d both had some pretty intense moments. Buck didn’t really understand everything that was going on, but he recognized he was foolishly infatuated with French and didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good friendship with a stupid crush.

Once Buck’s mom arrived and he got in the car, he could sense something was off, but wasn’t quite sure what. The entire drive home she seemed…disappointed? But why?

Buck didn’t have the wherewithal to figure it out. When he got home, he curled up in bed and fell asleep immediately.

_He was in his house, except it wasn’t his house, it was huge. Carlos and Adrian were running around with nerf guns. The walls were open, made of glass, and nerf darts with suction cups were stuck everywhere._

_Then Buck was running around, searching for French. But each time he entered a room and found him, French disappeared out a far door, and all Buck could see was his back. He kept chasing, chasing him, until the dream changed and Buck was the one being chased. It was suddenly night. The house grew bigger and bigger and he could no longer see the outside. It was just a series of rooms within rooms. He ran downstairs, deeper and deeper, and heard footsteps pursuing him the whole time. He had to hide. He needed to hide._

_Finally he slipped into a closet and cracked the door. He was still himself, but he was much younger, perhaps five years old, and wearing girl clothes._

_There was another child in the closet, an older boy. He leaned over and shushed Buck, told him to be still. Buck started crying, and the boy shushed him again, but it just made it worse. Then the boy pulled Buck into his lap and held him tight, stifling his cries against his shoulder. The footsteps stopped outside the closet, but the boy just held Buck tighter._

And then he woke up.


End file.
